


Afternoon Tea

by Neyiea



Series: Tea Party [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Touch, Blackmail, Dress Up, Dubious Consent, Forced Crossdressing, M/M, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-26 19:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: When Bruce receives a letter he doesn't think much of it, at least until he finds an invitation to afternoon tea inside.Considering who the invitation is from, how could he possibly say no?
Relationships: Jervis Tetch/Bruce Wayne
Series: Tea Party [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215944
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryvaleska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvaleska/gifts).



> All of this is coming rather easily ~~almost as easily as Bruce, lol~~. Jervis/Bruce... They are a fun little dynamic to explore.

You are cordially invited to afternoon tea  
In honour of our newfound acquaintance  
Saturday the 27th, at 3pm  
To be held in a special location, not shown on the map attached  
Arrive on the dot, at the dot  
And my associates will guide you to the proper spot  
Do wear your prettiest party dress  
(If you have none, never fear, one will be made available to you)  
Rejections not accepted, nor uninvited guests, nor hidden microphones  
Disobedience may result in the breaking of some poor kidnapped butler’s bones  
J.T.

x-x-x

Bruce arrives alone right at 3 pm, at the place that had been marked off on the map, and is promptly blindfolded and shoved into a car. It’s not exactly unexpected, and honestly the Tweedle’s rough handling of him is easier to take than the soft and possibly improper touches that he expects might be coming his way, so Bruce doesn’t fight to make things harder for himself, doesn’t yell as if he expects someone might help him, just sits in the back of the car in quiet contemplation. 

He’d done research, after their last tea party together, so while he is still afraid of Jervis and the terrible things that he is capable of, he isn’t completely unaware of his history and crimes the way that he had been before. He doesn’t have to worry about a hypnotized Jim getting murdered, this time around, and, as Jervis had said previously, if he had wanted Bruce dead or hypnotized last time he could have done it easily. Although he did worry about Jervis’s letter being sent to his home address—a chilling reminder that Wayne Manor was very easy for anyone with bad intentions to find—and the unsubtle threat of what might happen if Bruce didn’t play along with his rules. 

Rejections not accepted, was the one Bruce worried over most, not quite optimistic enough to believe that it referred only to the invitation itself. 

How does one lose the interest of an unpredictable madman without getting themselves killed?

Bruce straightens his back, refusing to acknowledge his twisting stomach and racing heart. He’s done that a few times before, hasn’t he? Or at least, he’s survived being the focus of men who were undoubtedly unhinged. Theo Galavan, Jerome Valeska—

The car slows to a stop. The door clicks open. He’s roughly removed, even though he’s not putting up a fight. 

Of course, he can’t help but think in the back of his mind as he’s lead onward, those previous madmen had never expressed any interest in kissing him. Jervis was still, in that respect, a whole different kind of beast in comparison to what Bruce was used to. 

The sun is warm on his back, and the ground underneath him uneven, but soon he is lead into a cool interior, down a winding corridor, and pushed into a room hard enough that he nearly trips. The door behind him is locked.

Even blindfolded, he can tell that he’s not alone.

His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t immediately reach for the blindfold. He gets the feeling that his host might find such a thing discourteous if done so without permission, and he’d rather play it safe as opposed to taking any chances, especially when afternoon tea hasn’t even started yet. 

“Hello?” Bruce calls softly, trying to sound demure and not like he’s experienced multiple instances of being captured and taken to a secondary location. He strains his ears for the sound of footsteps, nearly muted by the carpeted floor. The footsteps stop just in front of him. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, a sure sign that he’s being looked over intently. Anxiety pricks under his skin, despite his preparation for this situation. He doesn’t like being stared at. “It would be very lonely to be left in a strange room all by myself when I expected to have company upon arriving.” 

Delighted laughter greets him. Something like a thrill rushes though Bruce, happy to have evidently done something right once again. He can do this. He can survive this. And if Jervis expects another kiss from him at the end, well, Bruce would begrudgingly cross that bridge when they came to it, even if Jervis’s facial hair would prickle against him strangely. 

“It is a pleasant surprise that you are not alone, then?” Jervis asks, seemingly in good spirits. 

“Very pleasant,” Bruce tells him, hands folding in front of him because if Jervis makes any sudden moves into his personal space Bruce is going to have to hold back the instinct to lash out at him. “Though it would be better if I could see you.”

Leather-clad knuckles graze his cheek, and Bruce fights both the urge to flinch back from the soft touch and the urge to slap the limb away. The hand skims through his hair and tugs on the back of the blindfold, undoing it. It falls away and Bruce looks up to meet the dark, mischievous eyes before him, forcing a small smile upon his lips.

“Thank you, Jervis.”

“You are most welcome, Bruce,” Jervis says, taking Bruce’s hand and pulling him further into the room. “I see that you’re not dressed for tea, but then again.” He smirks rather infuriatingly, as if Bruce not dressing up was his real plan all along. Perhaps it had been, since he probably was able to predict that Bruce had no desire to be seen leaving his house and making his way to the location marked on the map in a dress. “I assumed that you wouldn’t be.”

“I thought it would be best to leave those details up to you,” Bruce tells him, drawn in behind a screen and trying to appear less wary than he feels when he spots a familiar flash of blue from the corner of his eye. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, a dress was still a dress, but he thinks he would have preferred wearing a different colour. “I’m not used to the attire that you seem to favour, so I felt it would be better to bow to your expertise.”

Jervis’s smile widens. Bruce’s insides twist. 

“Are we in a rush for me to get dressed today?” With any luck he’d be able to do the zipper up by himself this time, and spare himself the sensation of Jervis’s eyes and fingers grazing up his bare back. 

“No, not today. The tea hasn’t even been brewed yet.” Jervis lets go of his hand but his fingers linger, dragging over Bruce’s own as it slowly falls away. “Last time we were both in such a dreadful hurry—” Except for when Bruce needed help doing the dress up. Then Jervis seemed content to take far more time than the task needed. “—so I thought it would be nice for you to be able to don your layers without worry.” 

Layers? Some of Bruce’s confusion must show through, because Jervis sends him another of those overly indulgent looks, like when Bruce had told Jervis that he wasn’t a doll.

“You can hardly be properly dressed for a tea party if all you’re wearing is a dress with boxers underneath.” 

Despite himself Bruce feels his face get a little warmer. He would, of course, much prefer to only have to slip a dress on over his head again, but he could do this, he could be brave, he had done much stranger and much worse things during his sixteen years alive, and most of them were all crammed into the last few years. He steps forward, brushing past Jervis as he approaches the familiar blue which he had seen at the corner of his eye. Hung up on the privacy screen is a dress not exactly like the one he’d worn before, but similar enough. Beside it another, much simpler gown is hung, a creamy off-white, which Bruce supposes is meant to be a first layer; an old-fashioned undergarment. Bruce would slip on both, and if Jervis was going to push about the underwear then Bruce would pull his down once he was fully covered, even though the idea of being bare under a skirt makes him flush even harder.

Eager to get it over with he curls his fingers into the hem of his shirt and, telling himself very firmly not to turn around, opens his mouth to request that Jervis give him some privacy, perhaps even by situating himself on the other side of the screen.

“Before you get too far—” Jervis cuts in first and Bruce freezes, because he’s much closer than Bruce had thought. Right behind him, as if he’d followed after Bruce when Bruce had walked past him. “I’m afraid you haven’t seen the full picture, and I would hate for you to clothe yourself and miss any of the pieces that I’ve picked out especially for you to wear.”

“The full picture?” Bruce parrots weakly. The heat of Jervis is once again at his back, even through layers of clothing, even if they’re not quite close enough to touch. “What am I missing, then?”

A hand gently curls into his hair and guides his face to the side. A chair that he hadn’t bothered to take notice of—not with the blue dress demanding his attention—has a pair of black shoes underneath it, and silky looking bundles on top of it. Stockings, Bruce thinks as he looks at the sheer white of one. Stockings, and probably—

He feels himself grow warmer.

Evidentially he wouldn’t have to worry about being bare under the skirt. 

“Okay,” he somehow manages, “I won’t forget them. Could you turn around, please?” Jervis’s hand is still in his hair, softly petting at him, and it makes Bruce feel unsteady. Again, he is reminded of how much more accustomed he is to violent attentions than gentle ones. In the back of his mind he supposes that he should probably find that depressing. “I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

“Please do,” Jervis whispers, and his hand falls away. The heat of him retreats, and Bruce finds himself shivering, suddenly cold. He darts a look behind him and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Jervis has turned his back to him.

He makes quick word of his shirt, shoes, and socks, but he grabs onto the blue and white underwear that Jervis had apparently picked out for him before he removes his pants. When he picks it up he realizes that there is not just something for the bottom, but for the top as well, as if Jervis is once again content to ignore the fact that Bruce isn’t like the Alice replacements that Jervis usually has as his unwilling guests for tea. It’s more like a bikini top than an actual bra, thin with zero padding, so at least Jervis isn’t forcing him into something that will give him fake cleavage. Then, as he looks closer, Bruce sees that there’s writing on both pieces. 

Then he burns in silent mortification.

 _Novelty underwear_. Not only that, but undeniably _promiscuous_ novelty underwear. 

This was a thing that people actually bought, and perhaps he’d realized that somewhere in the back of his head despite the way he liked to think of himself as being too busy with more important things to bother acknowledging his teenaged hormones more than once in a blue moon. Still, it was one thing to realize that something existed and not have it affect you on a person level, and it was another thing entirely to be faced with the knowledge that you were meant to wear it. In his hands are dainty panties, the pure white edged in light blue lace, proclaiming in a delicate font ‘Eat Me’. Even worse is the bralette that’s still laid out on the chair, that has that same font spelling out ‘Drink Me’.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He whirls around to look at Jervis, and the man’s back is still thankfully turned to him even though Bruce had almost been sure that he’d catch him peeking. 

“I don’t hear any rustling,” Jervis tells him, voice far too cheerful. “Do you need a hand already?”

“No,” Bruce wheezes out. It’s just underwear. It’s just text. It even goes along with the Alice in Wonderland theme, though wildly inappropriate. “No, I’m alright, thank you.” He drops the panties and puts on the bralette first, shrugging it on over his flat chest and resolutely not looking down to catch a glimpse of what it looks like on him. The material feels tight and thin, cheaply made, something mass produced. Bruce hates that he’s not sure if Jervis just happened to see these and picked them up on a whim or if he actually went out searching for something like it specifically for this moment. He’s not even sure which option he would rather it be. 

Maybe he would have rather been bare underneath the dress, after all.

He darts another suspicious glance behind him, and Jervis’s back is still turned. He appears to be subtly rocking back and forth on his heels, though, as if anxious or impatient. Bruce whirls back around, steadying his hands in preparation for quick work as he undoes his pants and steps out of them. He shivers in the cool of the room—barely sixteen, practically naked, an adult man who’s already shown improper interest just a few steps away from him; it’s enough to make him briefly dizzy—and then his underwear drops to the floor and he scrambles to put the ones Jervis picked out for him on as quickly as possible. The lacey edges prickle against his thighs as he slides them on, and somewhere in the back of his mind he is reminded of what it felt like when Jervis kissed him. The light scratch of facial hair against his face, almost ticklish. The thought almost causes him to stumble as he grabs onto the old-fashioned slip meant to be layered underneath of the dress, holding it close to his chest as he turns to complete his customary check and freezes. 

Dark eyes are already watching him. 

How long had Jervis been looking for? How much of Bruce had he seen? Bruce feels himself grow even hotter, embarrassment and irritation sparking inside of him, and he watches Jervis’s predatory eyes sink half-shut as they continue to linger upon him, as opposed to darting away to give off some kind of falsified notion of privacy. Bruce’s fingers twitch with the desire to curl into fists and he holds the slip even closer against himself, shielding whatever he can from view, hiding behind a delicate veil of fabric. 

“It’s not very gentlemanly to watch when you’ve been asked to turn around.” He had wanted to play it safe, but Jervis is making it very difficult not to lash out at him.

“I only just turned around to see how you were getting on,” Jervis says, as if that’s an excuse for this sort of behaviour, and he actually dares to step closer. His eyes seem to draw up every bare part of Bruce that they can find, and Bruce feels torn between what he thinks he ought to do—shy away demurely and ask for privacy sweetly while glimpsing up at Jervis from under his lashes—and what he wants to do—cast the slip aside and take Jervis by surprise, pushing him to the ground or punching him in the nose or maybe kicking him between the legs. “Besides, there’s no need to be so shy.” Another step forward. Why is he coming so close, if not to invade Bruce’s personal space? Bruce breaks out into goosebumps at the thought of being gently touched while he’s in nothing but a set of ridiculously themed underwear. “You don’t have anything that I haven’t seen before, remember?” Despite this, he’s staring at Bruce as if starved for the sight of him. 

The irritation overpowers the embarrassment.

Bruce meets himself in the middle. 

It is not a shy plea to turn back around or a violent outburst that would leave Jervis bloody and bruised, but the slap to the face still seems to catch him off guard. Something like victory unfurls in Bruce’s chest, leaving him feeling pleased and wild for all of four seconds before Jervis’s head very slowly turns back towards him, expression chillingly difficult to read. His gloved hand slowly raises to tenderly stroke against the pink handprint that Bruce had left on his cheek. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look upset. His usually expressive face is distant, blank, his eyes not focusing on Bruce but instead turned inward. 

After another moment a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and any of Bruce’s remaining happy feelings dissipate quite abruptly. 

“You’ve got spirit, little doll,” Jervis whispers, something sparking to life in his eyes as his focus settles upon Bruce once again. “Alice did too, before her fall.”

The mention of Alice abruptly twists at Bruce’s stomach. He knows who she was, now. He knows that she was his little sister. He knows that he’d rather not be like her at all; a difficult task to accomplish when he has no way of knowing what she was like.

“I’m not a doll, and I’m not Alice, either.” 

Jervis steps forward and Bruce steps back, warily trying to keep the distance between them even though there’s only so much space left behind Bruce for him to retreat into. At the bottom edge of his vision he notices that Jervis is taking off his gloves. 

“I never said that you were Alice.”

But you’re dressing me the way you dressed her, Bruce thinks anxiously, and you’re bringing me to a tea party like you did with her, and with every girl you’ve tried to replace Alice with. 

But none of the poor girls who had been taken to act as a substitute for Alice had made it through their first tea party alive. Jervis had said, before, that Bruce wasn’t like his other guests. Did that mean that Bruce was—unwittingly, unwillingly—somehow more like Jervis’s departed sister then they had been?

The slip might as well be made of glass, for how covered it’s making him feel with Jervis’s eyes so intent upon him. Despite himself he is reminded of a time with Jerome Valeska all over again, though not at the benefit this time; Bruce so young, so small, held so tightly in his strong arms. Now he remembers the glimmering of eyes that looked up at him as Bruce let his temper run rampant, and it makes him try and rein in his remaining indignation.

He doesn’t want his ‘spirit’ to get him even more attention. He wants less attention. Maybe even _no_ attention. Just one entire year, one month, even one week of his life where no wicked people wanted anything to do with him.

“Will you turn around again?” Bruce is almost out of space to retreat to and so, stuck, he has to do what he can to deescalate this situation that had become charged in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d feel much better if Jervis didn’t look even more interested in him after getting slapped. Alice must have managed to land a few hits on her brother in her time. Good for her, Bruce thinks, but not great for my current situation. “It’s poor manners to be doing this, you know.”

Jervis’s hands slowly reach forward and take hold of the slip. He doesn’t try to yank it out of Bruce’s grip, at least not yet. His eyes are so dark and so attentive that Bruce can no longer bear to look directly into them, and churning apprehension causes his chin to dip down, looking up through his lashes as if shy.

“It’s poor manners to slap your host.”

“You were peeking.”

Jervis’s smile widens, cheeky.

“I suppose to a bashful young boy such as yourself such a thing is seen as deplorable.” At least he isn’t trying to deny the obvious. “But if you were me you’d understand the irresistible lure of looking upon something so adorable.” He winks, overtly playful. His hands tug on the slip. Bruce doesn’t let go of it. “You slapped me quite hard in your haste to punish the apparent crime of admiring the sight before me. I think it only fair that in recompense I am allowed the pleasure of aiding you in your preparations for tea.” His hands tug on the slip again, more firmly this time.

I don’t need help getting dressed, Bruce thinks with no small amount of fluttering vexation. The longer he resists Jervis’s assistance, though, the longer he’s going to be standing here in nothing but the themed underwear. 

“Fine.” Bruce lets go of the slip and whirls around. Jervis has seen his bare back before. Jervis has, most likely, seen a lot more than his bare back, though he tries not to think too hard about that. 

Jervis chuckles under his breath.

“Lift your arms for me,” he bids, and Bruce does so without hesitation. “There, perfect.”

The slip is pulled over Bruce’s head and gently tugged down his body. Jervis’s hands briefly linger at the waist, making miniscule adjustments as if to make absolutely sure that it’s laying straight. 

It could have been worse. It could have taken longer. 

The fabric is cool and light against his skin, and the hem brushes against the tops of his knees in a way that makes him abruptly remember fingers gently edging underneath a skirt to slide up his leg. He notices a change in his breathing—becoming shallow and fast—and tries not to think about it too hard as Jervis moves to take the blue dress off of the hanger. 

Bruce knows enough about tailored clothes to realize that this dress is a finer quality than the one he’d worn before. Jervis had splurged on this one, perhaps because he knew that it wouldn’t end up drenched in blood. He lifts his arms without Jervis having to ask him to, this time, and tries not to think too hard about the pleased hum that sounds out behind him. It slips over his head, soft and airy, and once again Jervis’s hands linger at the waist, tugging and shifting minutely before his hands draw away to settle not upon a zipper, but laces. He slowly begins to pull them taut, but not distressingly tight. 

“I used to do up the backs of Alice’s dresses, you know, before the world turned her against me and she ran away.”

Bruce bites his lip to keep his thoughts on that matter held firmly within his mouth. 

“I’ve missed partaking in such tender acts of devotion.” He is close, far too close, and Bruce feels a shiver race down his spine. “Those other girls; wretched disappointments, vapid whores,” he hisses the insults in evident displeasure. “Never asked me for my help.”

Who would ask such a predatory presence for help getting dressed?

Poor Alice, and poor Bruce, too naïve to know any better at the time.

The laces at the top are drawn closed, Bruce can feel Jervis’s fingers brush against him as they’re tied off into a bow. The hands retreat for a moment, Jervis moving behind him, then Bruce feels something press into his curls and he breaks out into goosebumps when he feels a soft exhalation rustle them.

“Sit down, dear Bruce.” His big hands lay upon Bruce’s narrow shoulders, guiding him around. “Let me help you into your stockings.” He presses down firmly and Bruce sinks into the chair behind him, watching in tense silence as Jervis kneels before him, the sheer stockings thrown casually over one shoulder. He takes one into his hands and begins to fold the sides in on itself, and when he is done without him having to ask Bruce obediently lifts his foot forward, toes pointed. 

Jervis glimpses up at him, smiling darkly, and he slowly drags the first stocking up Bruce’s leg until the very top, decorated with a sweet little bow, rests just above Bruce’s knee. As his hands retreat his fingertips drag down Bruce’s calf, and then he repeats the process with the other stocking. Then come the shoes, shiny black leather with a buckle and strap, and a thankfully low heel. They fit him perfectly, and Bruce really doesn’t want to know how Jervis managed to figure out his shoe size. 

“There now, nearly done, stay right there,” Jervis murmurs, even though by all rights they should be finished already. What more could there possibly be? “Just a few finishing touches needed.” He stands, towering over Bruce even more with Bruce sitting down. Enveloped in light fabric and feeling exposed despite the layers, Bruce struggles not to squirm.

First there is a brush lightly run through his curls in a way that might have been soothing if it were done by someone he trusted. Then a ribbon is woven into his hair as a headband and tied into a bow. Jervis’s fingers toy with the ends of his hair briefly before he finally seems content with his work.

“Aren’t you just lovely?” Jervis looks upon him avidly, one hand pulling the zipper of a makeup bag open. “Only a little bit more. I’m not interested in having you look like a painted whore.”

Bruce fights back the urge to glare at him as Jervis digs out a small compact of blush and a brush, gently dusting colour onto the apples of Bruce’s cheeks and the tip of his nose. Then there is lipstick in a candy-apple red, applied with a level of dedication that makes Bruce’s breaths become shallow and fast again. Then there is mascara, which Bruce can’t seem to stop flinching away from, at least until Jervis takes his jaw in his hand and Bruce is forced into stillness. 

“No need to fear, Bruce,” Jervis soothes, fingers pressing into Bruce’s skin as the mascara wand draws near again. “Look up, there, that’s it.” One set of lashes is lightly coated, then the other. “Such a sweet little thing you are.” Bruce doesn’t want to be considered sweet or little, or even lovely, for that matter. He’d rather be dark and bland and boring. “You already have such charming doe-eyes, you hardly need anything to turn them into a bewitching sight.”

“Bewitching eyes; isn’t that you?” Bruce grumbles under his breath. He means it as a barb, a pointed jab at Jervis’s hypnotism. _Look into my eyes. Not above them, not around them, but deep into their center._ “Enthralling, some might say.”

Unfortunately, Jervis decides to take the words at face-value.

He blinks, as if in surprise, and then his already present smile widens.

“What kind words, dear boy, I’m happy that you think so.” He bends at the waist, looming before Bruce, and Bruce sinks down in the chair in an effort to retreat from him. Jervis’s hands softly lay overtop of his own, which are gripping the armrests firmly. If Bruce were standing he thinks his knees would be buckling, but if Bruce were standing at least he wouldn’t be feeling so very small and delicate right now; like some kind of fragile, painted teacup, waiting to either be gently used or shattered in a fit of rage. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.” Jervis’s fingertips stroke along the backs of his hands, light as a butterfly’s wings, and Bruce feels himself breaking out into goosebumps again. 

Is that why you keep complimenting me? 

Probably.

Seconds begin to stretch. Jervis begins to dip even closer. Bruce’s heart just about stops.

“I’m ready for tea, so isn’t it time to go?” He prompts softly. Jervis’s smile gains a knowing edge, obviously not fooled by Bruce’s poor, hurried rhyme. He ducks in so quickly that Bruce flinches back despite the fact that he can’t go anywhere. 

A kiss is laid firmly upon his forehead. Somehow the chasteness of such a gesture makes Bruce feel even more disheveled than a forceful kiss to the mouth might have. Jervis draws back, eyes glinting as he looks over Bruce’s face, flushed even under the additional colour that he had been adorned with. 

“I have been very much looking forward to this.” Jervis moves to stand tall again, one hand reaching out, palm raised, for Bruce to take. It is similar to the first time Bruce willingly took Jervis’s hand, except there is no pocket watch in the other, this time, and no gloves to keep their bare skin from touching. Bruce reaches forward, their fingers grazing together before Jervis grips onto him and assists him out of the chair. “A private tea with you; no chaperone, no police, no interruptions.” He raises Bruce’s hand up to his mouth, eyes staring, unflinching, as he presses his lips to Bruce’s knuckles, his moustache and beard softly scratching at skin. “In other words: certain bliss.” 

Bruce has an entirely different sort of word in mind, but he keeps that to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤

At the back of the house, in an overrun garden, lays a greenhouse that has begun to fall into disrepair. Some panels of glass are cracked, and there are creeping green vines growing along the interior, and anything else that might have once been housed inside has been cleared out to make room for a table and chairs. Despite the obvious abandonment there’s something idyllic about the location. The streaming light, the golden framework, the rustle of wind, the sounds of nature. It is much prettier than a ruined warehouse or a shabby amusement park. 

It’s almost romantic, even. 

The table is set—with a fine white table cloth, silver serving trays of dainty sandwiches and sweets, the matching silver tea set, the pretty little teacups—the tea is brewed, and Jervis pulls back the chair for Bruce to sit in, a parody of gentlemanly behaviour when Jervis is really quite the opposite despite what he might call himself, just as he did last time.

Jervis pours the tea for them both as he stands at the head of the table, once again adding too much milk and sugar into the one meant to be Bruce’s while keeping his own black with one sugar. He sets it in front of Bruce delicately, and Bruce murmurs a word of thanks before, as last time, Jervis settles down beside him.

“If you sat across from me it would be easier for us to look at each other,” Bruce comments, taking a small sandwich and putting it onto a plate, more to give himself something to do than out of any real hunger. 

It would also conveniently render Jervis unable to lay a hand upon his leg again. 

In response Jervis angles his chair and brings it closer, his foot brushing against Bruce’s underneath the table.

“I can see you just fine, Bruce. Turning one’s head is such an effortless duty.” Jervis idly toys with his teacup, lightly dragging a fingertip along the circular rim. “And this way I am close in order to bask in your beauty.” His eyes do a slow sweep, down and back up, and he practically radiates delight.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Bruce says flatly, an inversion of Jervis’s previous statement. He takes the teacup in his hands and keeps his eyes turned forward, staring out the glass panels into the sunny, overgrown garden. Roses and lavender, ivy and weeds, all are flourishing, unchecked. From the corner of his eye he can tell that Jervis is continuing to stare at him. He supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. “And there are other things to look at here just as beautiful as me.” He doesn’t want to outright deny his apparent ‘beauty’ only for Jervis to lay the compliments on even thicker than he already has. Bruce would be very content to never be called a beauty again, or lovely, or sweet, or little. Bruce would be very content to never be looked at by Jervis again, because the man’s attention is making him burn and freeze at the same time, caught up between extremes and not entirely sure why.

“Glass, flowers, brick, and grass are all very mundane in comparison, actually. Such self-depreciation, Bruce, I can hardly stand for it.” Jervis nudges closes, his shin brushing underneath the back of Bruce’s closest calf, as if he cannot stand to let Bruce forget that he’s so close. “It sounds as if you’ve gone unappreciated, a terrible lapse which is undoubtedly in no way your own fault. I’ll simply have to pick up the slack.”

Bruce brings the teacup up to his lips, wetting his dry mouth.

“There’s no need to go out of your way.”

“Nonsense.” Jervis’s wide palm lays upon his knee. Even though he’d been bracing himself for it Bruce can’t quite keep from reacting, a subtle shudder. “You deserve to be recognized, valued—” The hand briefly squeezes. “—admired.”

“And you’re so sure that I haven’t been?” Bruce tries not to squirm as Jervis’s big, warm hand continues to rest upon him. Even if it’s not moving, yet, it’s impossible to ignore. Jervis himself is, unfortunately, impossible to ignore even when not looking directly at him. “People appreciate me.”

“Not in the way you were meant to be,” Jervis responds cryptically, finally turning away from Bruce, even if only for a few moments, to take a sip of his own tea. Bruce doesn’t want clarification, because he suspects it’ll make him feel even more like squirming. He suspects it has something to do with the way Jervis began to trail his hand up his dress, last time, and the way Jervis chased after him to kiss him deeper, last time. 

He remembers, quite abruptly, the feeling of Jervis’s tongue against his lips and in his mouth, and he finishes off his tea in a hurry, trying to ignore the sudden pounding of his heart. Selina and Silver had never kissed him like that. Selina and Silver had never touched him like Jervis did, either. Selina and Silver had never made him flush and flutter this much. Selina and Silver were actually his age. 

“May I please have another cup?” 

Jervis’s hand withdraws. It feels like a small miracle. 

“You may.”

Bruce numbly eats a sandwich as Jervis prepares a second cup for him, not sure what else to do and not wanting to watch Jervis work. Soon the man is sat beside him once more, sliding the teacup and saucer in front of Bruce, his shin against the back of Bruce’s calf, his open palm against Bruce’s knee. 

“Thank you, Jervis.”

“You’re welcome, Bruce.” Jervis’s long fingers begin to tap rhythmically against him, as if excited, as Jervis takes a sip of his own tea again. For a grown man there are times where he seems almost childish; mature in body and mind and desire, but not in self-restraint. Or perhaps he just preferred a lack of control, perhaps he felt power in not holding himself back from expressing joy and pleasure in little ways which might have been cute, if Bruce weren’t so very wary of him. He’s sure Jervis doesn’t bother to hold himself back from expressing his anger and hatred, too. He is all extreme outbursts, highs and lows, a rollercoaster of emotion whose path can’t be properly predicted once something or someone has set him off. 

For several minutes they sit and have what appears to be a comfortable exchange. Jervis drinks his tea and cuts into a strawberry tart, offering half to Bruce who shakes his head, too focused on the fingers tapping against him to do much more than nervously sip at and drain his second cup. Bruce murmurs empty pleasantries that he’s sure he’s heard a thousand times at a hundred events, echoes of sentiments that Jervis seems content to nod along to for the moment, fingers continuing to pitter-patter over Bruce as if his knee is a piano and Jervis wishes to make music. 

It’s not entirely unbearable—Bruce feels skittish but not dreadfully terrified—so of course it must eventually come to an end. 

“As the first man that you’ve ever kissed,” Jervis begins apropos of nothing, and Bruce nearly chokes on the last dregs of his tea at the sudden reminder. “I have put a lot of thought into the other responsibilities that now fall onto me.”

“None,” Bruce replies immediately, setting his empty cup down. Jervis seems content to ignore that. 

“Such a shy thing you were, brushing your closed mouth against mine for all of one second before you departed.” Jervis’s fingers stop tapping, but only so that he can toy with the little bow at the top of Bruce’s stocking. “Why, I would practically think that I was your first kiss, man or not, you seemed so fainthearted.” 

“You weren’t my first kiss.” Somehow that seems very important to state plainly. He doesn’t want some weird notion of Bruce being completely untouched swerving around in Jervis’s head and possibly making him even more difficult to deal with. Bruce may be young and admittedly green, but he’s not some pure-white canvas for Jervis to cast any desires about being the first to leave a mark upon. “You weren’t even my second.”

“Ahh.” Jervis shifts on his seat, edging closer. “Children’s kisses meant for a child; those hardly count. I was certainly your first adult kiss. Your first _real_ kiss.”

How can you tell, Bruce wants to ask, but he manages to resist the urge. He probably doesn’t actually want to know. And what does it matter, Bruce reminds himself adamantly after a moment, why should he care about his opinion at all? The kiss with Jervis had been an obligation, undeserving of any real feeling or commitment. Not like his other kisses. Well, his other kisses on his own side of things, considering that Silver’s time with him had always had a sinister purpose behind it. Still. 

“Does that really matter?” The fingers are beginning to edge up. Bruce shuts his legs tightly together, like he had last time, but Jervis just hums and continues to very slowly trace up the outside of his thigh. “The only difference was that you stuck your tongue in my mouth.”

Jervis makes a low, amused sound.

“Do you think that’s the only difference between a child’s kiss and an adult’s kiss? Tongue?”

“Well, it’s not as if—” Bruce cuts himself off. Not only because telling Jervis to his face that he hadn’t done anything to prove otherwise seems like a recipe for disaster—or rather, an invitation for Jervis to prove him wrong—but also because Jervis’s hand is caressing across his thigh, fingers forcefully dipping into the tight space between Bruce’s closed legs. He’s only a few inches above Bruce’s knees, but it’s still far too high, far too much. His hand is too warm and too big and too unpredictable; it makes Bruce’s heart race in a way almost nothing else has ever managed, pounding as if he’s facing certain death instead of dealing with a man fondling his leg. Bruce reaches down and grabs hold of Jervis’s wrist, cheeks burning. “Stop that.”

“But you’re so soft and warm,” Jervis coos. “And so very sweet. You deserve to be doted on—” His hand inches higher, despite Bruce’s grip on his wrist, too strong and determined for Bruce to push against. The skirt of the dress shifts with the movement, the hem brushing against him as it’s raised ever so slightly as the fabric over Bruce’s lap becomes increasingly bunched up. “—and petted.”

“I’m—” Why does he have to feel so hot, so unsteady? His stomach is churning, sick with the sensation of fluttering butterflies when it should just be sick, full stop. Selina and Silver never made him feel like this, and the closest comparison is something that seems inherently wrong to think about in this moment; caught up in a mad teenager’s arms, held tight against his chest, short of breath and hardly able to hear his own thoughts over the loud thrumming of his pulse. “I’m not used to this sort of attention.” He doesn’t want Jervis to think of him as some completely untouched adolescent, ripe for defiling, but perhaps reminding him of Bruce’s inexperience will endear Jervis to him enough that he’ll allow Bruce time to adjust. “You shouldn’t rush me into anything, it’s inappropriate.” 

“Immoral, unethical, dishonorable,” Jervis murmurs agreeably, fingers flexing subtly between Bruce’s legs. “Isn’t that half the fun?” 

“No,” Bruce says, but his voice is soft enough that it almost sounds like a question instead of an answer. He takes in a steadying breath to sound more resolute, and his fingers clench around Jervis’s wrist even more tightly to deal out what little punishment he can. He allows himself to imagine, for one moment, that he’s gripping Jervis’s throat instead. “If you’re going to be touching me—” Petting me, his mind supplies unhelpfully. Petting me, petting me, petting me. “—you should at least ease me into it. Isn’t that—” He jolts and poorly stifles a shriek when Jervis’s fingers pinch him, far too sharp to be purely playful and hard enough to leave a bruise. Bruce’s resistance is starting to exasperate him, as if Bruce is merely playing at being hard to get. Bruce’s tight grip on him loosens into something less threatening. “—part of your responsibility as my first adult kiss?”

“Ah.” The fingers are no longer pinching him. Jervis may as well be crowing in victory, for all that his self-assured pleasure is rolling off of him in palpable waves. Bruce wishes that Jervis would choke on his own oversized ego. Bruce wishes that he had his father’s watch wrapped around his knuckles. “So you do agree that I have further obligations towards you.”

Not really, no, but as Bruce thinks back on the rules laid out on the invitation that he’d received he finds himself wondering if it isn’t for the best to let Jervis assume whatever suits him best. 

_Rejections not accepted, nor uninvited guests, nor hidden microphones. Disobedience may result in the breaking of some poor kidnapped butler’s bones._

Rejections not accepted.

Broken bones. 

Jervis may be content with not hypnotizing Bruce if he doesn’t absolutely have to, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be more than happy to show up at Wayne Manor one day and drag Alfred under his influence if this tea party didn’t go as he’d planned. And where would Bruce be, then? Stuck having afternoon tea in his own home, served by a dead-eyed Alfred, worried that any misstep would be enough for Jervis to lash out at the only family that he had left, completely without options.

Bruce is likely going to get petted whether he wants to be or not—not, he very firmly tells himself, just because he’ll let it happen doesn’t mean he asked for it—but maybe this way he can at least have a few more minutes to mentally prepare for the fact that Jervis wants to get his hands all over him.

“You ought to take responsibility,” he says, voice weaker than he’d like for it to be. Bruce—who has grown up so quickly and is used to being the one taking responsibility and making choices and determinedly following along his own set courses of action no matter what the adults in his life might think about it—isn’t accustomed to giving that sort of power to anyone. Not willingly, at least. He listens to the people that he respects, and will consider their opinions carefully, but in the end the choice is always his own, and it has been that way for years. Now though, he finds himself throwing himself into the care of Jervis in the hopes that it will make things easier for him in the long run. He’s not used to it. It makes him anxious. Jervis isn’t trustworthy. Jervis isn’t good. “You’re the one in charge, you should look after me,” his voice cracks and his face burns. “I’ve been very good so far.” Other than, perhaps, the slap. But Jervis had obviously been charmed by his show of spirit, so Bruce doubts that it is going to be held against him. He would slap Jervis again—just for the pleasure of feeling his palm come into stinging contact with the man’s arrogant face and knowing that he could get away with it without getting himself killed or worse—if he weren’t relatively sure that Jervis would enjoy it. “But you’ll scare me off if you go too fast.” 

It’s humiliating, to openly admit to being scared when really he’s faced much more terrifying things than an amorous man. Still, there’s not much more he can do. Or it least it doesn’t seem like there is. 

Bruce could try to run, covering his ears and screaming to keep from being hypnotized, but how far would he get before being caught? He and Jervis might be alone in the greenhouse, but the Tweedles were around somewhere, just out of sight, not to mention that Jervis might have a gun stashed within arm’s reach. Bruce would be cornered and captured and forcibly dragged back into the greenhouse. The hands that had covered his ears would be bound to the chair. His screaming mouth would be gagged. And then Jervis would likely punish him for being so disruptive and rude, just like the faulty Alice replacements, after all.

Jervis’s hand stops inching higher.

His eyes are so, so dark. 

“There’s no need to be frightened,” he lies smoothly. Or perhaps, in his own mind, there really is nothing to fear. Perhaps, in his own mind, something like this is normal. Jervis is a predatory man who once obsessed over his little sister and thought of his love for her as being pure and right, who sought her out and caught her after she had successfully run away from him, who has killed multiple girls while trying to find a replacement for her. The power imbalance between himself and the one he is pursuing is something that has always existed. Older brother and younger sister. Deranged criminal and captured girl. Infatuated man and nervous boy. “I only want to make you feel good.”

Bruce hesitantly lets go of Jervis’s wrist to trail his fingers up the man’s arm, gripping at his elbow instead. He looks up through his lashes, he bites his lip, he tries not to think about what Jervis’s big, warm hand would feel like if he palmed Bruce through the ridiculous underwear that he’d slid on half an hour ago. 

“You haven’t even given me a proper kiss,” he murmurs, saving himself and damning himself all at once. 

“That is, of me, very remiss,” Jervis says in return, voice lowered to mirror Bruce’s soft tone. He begins to lean forward. His hand doesn’t retreat from Bruce’s thigh, but his other does come up to cup the side of Bruce’s face and ensure that Bruce is turned fully towards him. Bruce, caught up by Jervis and bound to his whims, distantly realizes that he’s trembling. “Allow me to make up for my thoughtless neglect.” 

Bruce shuts his eyes tight and tilts up his chin, anxiously waiting for the feeling of lips and tongue to crash against his painted mouth. Fingers flex against his leg. A thumb strokes against his cheek. He waits in tense silence for something to happen. Lips press innocently against the side of his face, deceptively gentle, and despite himself some of Bruce’s tension recedes.

“There now,” Jervis whispers against his cheek, the sensation is just shy of ticklish. “Just relax, dear boy.” The hand on his cheek moves to drag into his hair, his fingers winding into Bruce’s short curls. “I’ll take care of everything.”

A kiss is pressed against his mouth.

There is no tongue or teeth, and for a moment Bruce allows himself to believe that maybe it won’t be so bad, but it only takes a moment before Jervis presses closer to him, lips parting on the second kiss, the tip of his tongue briefly slipping out of his mouth. There are no sirens, no gunshots, no timer this time. There is no gun pressing against the curve of his spine. Bruce grips Jervis’s elbow tight and presses up against his mouth, finally kissing back after a period of stillness, and Jervis makes a low, pleased sound that makes Bruce run hot and cold all at once, caught between extremes again. Desperate in his own way for affection and approval, fraught with the idea that he’s getting it from such an incredibly wicked source. 

His stomach fills with even more fluttering butterflies. 

Jervis drags his tongue against his mouth and Bruce’s lips shallowly part, tentatively inviting. They trade a few more kisses before the wet slide of a tongue darting into him parts his lips further, Jervis apparently content not to rush now that they have time to linger. The light prickling of his facial hair is still strange and new, even stranger than the feeling of someone else’s tongue in his mouth, or at least it is until Jervis begins to drag overtop of Bruce’s and Bruce feels compelled to open wider, never fully closing his mouth as he returns the kisses even when Jervis’s tongue retreats back between his own teeth. His lips soon become wet with their combined spit and feel tender after several unbroken minutes of devoted attention.

He’d never even thought of kissing Selina or Silver like this; deep enough to be slick, long enough to ache. His fleeting pecks with them do seem childish in comparison.

His hand slowly drags up Jervis’ arm, to his shoulder, to his neck. His brief fantasy about gripping Jervis’s throat seems very far away, though it had been less than ten minutes ago. Bruce’s fingers begin to drag into the roots of his hair at the back of his head instead of trying to deal out any punishment for Jervis’s perverse behaviour. The locks are silky and soft. It feels nice. Kissing him feels nice, too, though Bruce would never want to admit it. Thrilling, in a way. Forbidden. So very, very wrong when Bruce has always tried so hard to do only what’s right. But it’s not his fault, he’s not the one who started it, Jervis is the adult, Jervis is the one in charge.

Bruce’s legs, once clenched shut, begin to relax open. Bruce’s tongue, once motionless in his mouth, begins to uncertainly push back.

“Sweet little doll,” Jervis praises, petting at Bruce’s hair fondly. “Precious, darling boy.” He peppers kisses across Bruce’s warm, red cheeks, leaning back to look at him and smirking in a way that makes Bruce’s heart race for all of the wrong reasons and only a few of the right ones. “You’re melting so quickly after acting so cold, have you just been waiting for a reason to fold?”

“I’m not a doll, and I’m not melting,” he protests, somewhat breathless. His fingers idly curl into Jervis’s long hair, liking the way that it flows between his fingers. That overly indulgent look comes back, as if Jervis knows the truth but is currently content to allow Bruce to lie to himself. He’s insufferable. Bruce wishes he weren’t such a good kisser. 

“We’ll agree to disagree,” Jervis says with a faint air of condescension. If Bruce weren’t worried—because it must be worry, it can’t possibly be excitement—about repercussions he’d sharply yank on Jervis’s hair in response to being so obviously patronized. 

Jervis leans in to kiss him again and Bruce’s other hand rises up, knocking Jervis’s hat to the ground so that he can grab onto even more of his hair. Jervis seems to take that as some kind of sign, and his fingers slip the rest of the way up to fondle Bruce through his underwear.

Bruce jerks and squeaks, legs quickly clenching shut again, though that only seems to lock Jervis right against him. Jervis murmurs something happily against Bruce’s mouth, fingertips pressing more firmly. 

“Jervis—”

“I should have lifted you into my lap for this,” Jervis muses dreamily. “Spread your thighs over mine and held you open.”

“ _Jervis_.” God, Bruce feels like he’s burning up. “We hardly know each other. This doesn’t seem a little fast to you? If I’m the first boy you’ve kissed then I’m assuming that I’m—” Jervis palms him and Bruce audibly gasps, heated blood rushing south. “—the first one that you’ve touched like this.”

“I know you well enough, I think. And I know that I want to see you, squirming and pink.” Jervis laughs softly. “And I hope you’re not worried that I won’t know how to properly play with you; my first boy or not, I’m quite certain that I know what to do.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Bruce’s eye, tender and sweet in spite of what his filthy hand is doing. “Now then, why don’t you lift up this pretty dress of yours and let me take a look?”

“I can’t.” Bruce’s hands are fisted tightly in Jervis’s hair, he feels mortified and anxious and he’s getting hard, and the fact that he’s getting hard is only making him more mortified and anxious. 

“So proper,” Jervis says, smiling at Bruce in a way that sounds off alarms. Jervis—always stepping into the exploitative role, taking the lead of each twisted power dynamic he dragged some unwilling partner into—saw resistance as a challenge to be overcome as opposed to a direct rejection. After all, he had chosen to chase Alice after she had run. Bruce wonders if he’d be chased, too, or if Jervis would soon find another girl to try and use as a replacement and then forget all about him. “Never fear, Bruce, if you can’t do it, I can.” He shifts, hands moving to grip tightly at Bruce’s waist as if he means to pull Bruce into his lap after all, and hook Bruce’s legs over his own to spread them wide, and pull the skirt of Bruce’s dress up around his hips before petting at him even more. The thought makes Bruce dizzier than he’d like. He shifts on the chair, determined to stay out of Jervis’s lap and keep at least some control for himself, one knee bent and knelt upon the seat, the other leg dangling, the toe of his shoe pressing firmly against the ground. 

His arms wind tighter around Jervis’s shoulders, hands still caught up in his hair, and he licks against Jervis’s mouth until Jervis, quietly chucking in a way that makes Bruce burn—embarrassed at his lack of experience and his seemingly shameless behaviour, thrilled to have done something that Jervis apparently enjoyed, full of adrenaline from the act of kissing a grown man, appalled from the act of giving in with so little fight—kisses him back. His hands stay on Bruce’s waist, gripping at him firmly. Jervis is not holding him in order to hurt him. Jervis is holding him in order to make him feel something that no one else ever has. That makes Bruce dizzy, too.

There is sun streaming in, and wind rustling his hair, and a grown man is kissing him in a little glass greenhouse, absolutely unconcealed, absolutely wicked. Bruce should feel nothing but disgust right now. So why doesn’t he?

Because there must be something wrong with him, he thinks distantly as Jervis stands, pulling Bruce up to his feet. He sweeps an arm onto the table behind Bruce. Teacups and saucers fall to the ground and shatter, tarts are flung aside and roll away. His hands abruptly lift the skirt of the dress as he grabs Bruce by the waist, picking him up and sitting him onto the table. Silverware clatters around him as he settles, legs bared, the white and blue of his panties peeking out from beneath rumpled folds. Jervis’s hands settle on his thighs, keeping him open, keeping him spread—indecent, lewd; it makes Bruce’s thoughts flicker strangely to be handled so suggestively—as he fits himself between them and leans down to kiss Bruce again.

Bruce’s eyes flutter shut and his lips part, begrudgingly eager to receive the wet heat of Jervis’s adult kisses. If Jervis is going to touch him whether he wants it or not, he may as well get something out of it. That’s what he tells himself as he begins to melt in the way that he had insisted that he wasn’t. 

Jervis’s facial hair lightly scratches against him—Bruce is almost sure that it’s going to leave his skin pink even after they’re done—and his hands trace up Bruce’s legs, fingers toying with the blue, laced edge of the underwear that he’d made Bruce put on. He stops kissing Bruce, hooded eyes staring down, as he hikes the dress up even more. 

Bruce isn’t even sure he could put a single name to what he feels as Jervis looks down at him, the outline of his cock clearly visible through the panties. Shy from being on display, humiliated at having gotten fully hard so quickly, worried that Jervis—faced with the undeniable evidence that Bruce is different from Alice in one very particular way—is going to stop playing with him, horrified at his own sudden desire that this dalliance will continue for long enough that Bruce can experience what it feels like to have someone else make him cum. 

“Cute,” Jervis coos after a moment of quiet contemplation. Bruce fights the urge to fist his hands into the skirt of the dress and hide himself from view just as much as he fights the urge to lift his leg and kick. 

“Don’t use that word while you’re looking where you’re looking,” he stutters out. “It’s not cute. That’s—that’s a diminutive word. I’m not…” Small. He’s not some tiny little thing, or at least not compared to others his age, and he feels as if he’s relatively in proportion to himself. Compared to Jervis, though, he’s downright petite. Something about that makes his hot blood pool. Was that something he liked? Was that something he wanted? “Never mind, just don’t comment on it.”

“Aw, I haven’t hurt your feelings, have I?” Jervis smirks, hooded eyes landing on Bruce’s face again. “Sorry, my dear boy, what I meant to say was ‘handsome’.”

Bruce opens his mouth to protest—he can’t bear to be made fun of, not now, not like this—but all that comes out is a high whine when Jervis’s wide palm rests against the length of him and rocks. His hips shift before he can force himself to stillness, urgently humping up against Jervis’s hand. Jervis grins uncannily wide, dark eyes sparking wildly. 

“You fit so nicely under my hand, I cover you right up, don’t I? I could wrap you in my fist and there’d barely be anything left to peek out.”

 _Fuck_ , Jervis’s fingers wrapped around him, the idea is making Bruce feel a little crazy himself, even though he really wishes that Jervis would stop saying things that make him feel even smaller than he already does; a fragile little teacup, waiting to be used. 

“Jervis, don’t—don’t be mean.” Bruce’s hands grip onto the lapels of his jacket, eyes drawn down to where he’s being petted. Seeing it just makes him feel hotter. 

“It’s not mean if it’s a fact.” Jervis winds his other hand into Bruce’s curls again, tugging at his hair in order to lift his eyes. “It’s just the truth. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“ _You_ make me uncomfortable,” Bruce rasps, trying and failing not to buck against Jervis like the blushing virgin that he obviously is. It feels too good, he can’t help himself. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

“ _No_.”

“Good. I wasn’t going to, anyway.” 

He’s gross, unhinged, predatory. He kisses Bruce like he’s starving and Bruce opens up like he’s been dreaming of being devoured. Lightening crackles underneath Bruce’s skin, and it isn’t long before he’s gasping, “oh, oh, _oh_ ,” into Jervis’s mouth, a familiar feeling curling in the depths of him but ten times more intense, because for the first time ever it’s not his own hand stroking his dick. 

“Are you going to get your panties messy for me?” Jervis breathes against him sultrily. “Are you going to soak through them, Bruce?” 

“I’m gonna—” His knuckles are white, his face is hot, he’s so close. “I’m gonna—”

“That’s it, darling boy, just give in.” Jervis kisses him, licking into Bruce’s red, open mouth. “Life is much more entertaining when you live in sin.” 

Bruce cums with a high whine.


End file.
